Surfeit of Lampreys (32 page)

When the twins reappeared in the drawing-room Roberta thought they had a slightly attenuated and shivery air, rather as if they had been efficiently purged by Nanny. They looked coldly at the rest of their family, walked to the sofa and collapsed on it.

“Well,” said Colin after a long silence, “I see no reason why we should announce in anything but plain English the fact that the gaff is blown, the cat out of the bag, and the balloon burst.”

“What do you mean!” cried Charlot. “You didn't—”

“No, Mama, we didn't tell him because he already knew,” said Stephen. “I was the l-liftman. I did it with my little button.”

“I told you so,” Frid observed. “I told you that you'd never get away with it.”

Stephen looked icily at her. “Is it possible,” he said, “that any sister of mine can utter that detestable, that imbecilic phrase? Yes, Frid, dear, you told us so.”

“But, Stephen,” said Charlot in a voice so unlike her own that Roberta wondered for a second who had spoken, “Stephen, he doesn't think—you—
Stephen
?”

“It's all right, Mum,” said Colin. “I don't see how he could.”

“Of course not,” said Lord Charles loudly. “My dear girl, you're so upset and tired you don't know what you're saying. The police are not fools, Immy. You've nothing to upset yourself about. Go to bed, my dear.” And he added, without great conviction, an ancient phrase of comfort. “Things will seem better in the morning,” said Lord Charles.

“How can they?” asked Charlot.

“My darling heart, of course they will. We're in for a very disagreeable time no doubt. Somebody has killed Gabriel and, although it's all perfectly beastly, we naturally hope that the police will find his murderer. It's a horrible business, God knows, but there's no need for us to go adding to its horror by imagining all sorts of fantastic developments.” He touched his moustache. “My dear,” he said, “to suppose that the boys are in any sort of danger is quite monstrous; it is to insult them, Immy. Innocent people are in no kind of danger in these cases.”

Frid looked towards the far end of the room, where the constable's red head showed over the back of his chair. “Do you agree to all that?” she said loudly. The constable, slightly startled, got to his feet.

“I beg your pardon, Miss?”

“It would be grand,” Frid said, “if we knew your name.”

“Martin, Miss.”

“Oh. Well, Mr. Martin, I asked if you would say innocent people are as safe as houses, no matter how fishy things may look?”

“Yes, Miss,” said the constable.

“My good ass,” said Henry, glaring at Frid, “who looks fishy?”

“Henry, don't speak like that to Frid.”

“I'm sorry, Mama, but
honestly
! Frid is.”

“I'm
not
,” said Frid. “We all look fishy. Don't we?” she demanded of the constable. “Don't we look as fishy as Billingsgate?”

“I couldn't say, Miss,” said the constable uneasily, and Roberta suddenly felt extremely sorry for him.

“That will do, Frid,” said Lord Charles. Roberta had not imagined his voice could carry so sharp an edge. Frid crossed the room stagily and sat on the arm of her mother's chair.

There was a tap at the door and the constable, with an air of profound relief, answered it. The usual muttered colloquy followed, but it was punctuated by a loud interruption outside. “It's perfectly all right,” said a cheerful voice in the hall. “Mr. Alleyn knows all about it and Lady Lamprey expects me. If you don't believe me, toddle along and ask.”

“It's Nigel!” cried the Lampreys and Frid shouted: “Nigel! Come in, my angel! We're all locked up but Mr. Alleyn said you could come.”

“Hul
lo
, my dear!” answered the voice. “I know. I'll be there in a jiffy. They're just asking—oh, thanks. Tell him I'll come and see him later on, will you? Where are we? Thanks.”

The constable admitted a robust young man who, to Roberta's colonial eyes, instantly recalled the fashionable illustrated papers, so compactly did his clothes fit him, and so efficiently barbered and finished did he seem, with his hair drilled back from his reddish face, his brushed-up moustaches, and his air of social efficiency. He came in with a lunging movement, smoothing the back of his head and grinning engagingly, and rather anxiously, at the Lampreys.

“Nigel, my dear,” cried Charlot, “we're so
delighted
to see you. Did you think it
too
queer of Frid to ring up? Everyone else did.”

“I thought it marvellous of Frid,” said Nigel Bathgate. “Hullo, Charles, I'm terribly sorry about whatever it all is.”

“Damnable, isn't it,” said Lord Charles gently. “Sit down. Have a drink.”

“Robin,” said Henry, “You haven't met Nigel, have you? Mr. Bathgate, Miss Grey.”

Roberta, while she shook hands, had time to be pleased because Henry did not seem to forget she was there. As soon as Henry remembered Roberta, so did all the other Lampreys.

“Poor Robin,” said Charlot, “she's just this
second
arrived from the remotest antipodes to be hurled into a family homicide. Do get your drink quickly, Nigel, and listen to our frightful story. We're so dreadfully worried, but we thought that if we were having a
cause célèbre
you might as well get in first.”

“And perhaps stave off the press-men,” added Frid. “You will, won't you, Nigel? It really is a scoop for you.”

“But
what
is?” asked Nigel Bathgate. “I only got your message ten minutes ago and of course I came round at once. Why are Alleyn and his merry-men all over the place? What's occurred?”

The Lampreys embarked on a simultaneous narrative. Roberta was greatly impressed by the adroit manner in which Nigel Bathgate managed to disentangle cold facts from a welter of Lampreysian embroideries. His round red face grew more and more solemn as the story unfolded. He looked in dismay from one to another of the Lampreys and finally, with a significant grimace, jerked his head in the direction of the constable.

“Oh, we've given up bothering about him,” said Frid. “At first we talked French but really there's nothing left to conceal. Aunt Kit told Mr. Alleyn about the financial crisis and Daddy had to come clean about the bum.”

“
What?
”

“My dear Nigel,” said Lord Charles, “there's a man in possession. Could anything look worse?”

“And as for the twins,” said Frid, “your boy friend turned them inside out and hung them up to dry.”

“And I m-may t-tell you, Frid,” said Stephen, “that he knows just what we did in the dining-room. You would wipe your painted mouth on the carpet, wouldn't you?”

“Good Lord!” Henry ejaculated, and he threw two cushions down in front of the sealed door. “Why the devil didn't we think of that before?”

“Oh,” said Stephen, “he says he didn't bother to listen. I suppose we all give ourselves away t-too freely for it to be necessary.”

“But what is all this?” demanded Lord Charles. “What did you do in the dining-room?”

Rather self-consciously, his children told him.

“Not very pretty,” said Lord Charles. “What can he think of you?”

There was a short silence. “Not much, I daresay,” said Henry at last.

“You had better…” Lord Charles made a small despairing gesture and turned away. Frid spoke rapidly in French. Roberta thought she said that they had not been asked to give an account of the interview.

“But no doubt,” said Colin, “anything that we haven't told him has been madly divulged by Aunt V. So why be guarded?”

“But,” Nigel interrupted firmly, “where is your Aunt Violet? Where is Lady Wutherwood?”

“Asleep in my bed,” said Charlot, “with a nurse on one side of it and her maid, who is determined not to leave her, on the other. So where Charlie and I are to spend the night is a secret. We don't know. We've also got to bed down somewhere a chauffeur called Giggle, in addition to Mr. Grumball.”

“Yes, but look here, this is really serious,” Nigel began.

“Well, of course it is, Nigel. We know it's serious. We're all shaken to our foundations,” said Frid. “That's partly why we asked you to come.”

“Yes, but you don't
sound
…” Nigel began and then caught sight of Charlot's face. “Oh, my dear,” he said, “I'm so terribly sorry. But you needn't worry. Alleyn—”

“Nigel,” said Charlot, “what's he like? You've so often talked about your friend and we've always thought it would be such fun to meet him. Little did we know how it would come about. Here I've been, sitting in my own dining-room, trying to sort of
see
into him, do you know? I thought I'd got the interview going just my way. And now, when I think it over, I'm not so sure.”

“My dear Imogen,” said Nigel, “I know you're a genius for diplomacy but honestly, with Alleyn, if I were you, I wouldn't.”

“He laughed at me,” said Charlot defensively.

“Are you certain, Mummy,” said Frid, “that it wasn't sinister laughter? ‘Heh-heh-heh'?”

“It wasn't in the least sinister. He giggled.”

“I wish he'd send for me,” Frid muttered.

“I suppose you think,” Henry began, “that you're going to have a fat dramatic scene, ending in Alleyn throwing up the case because you're
trop troublante
. My dear girl, your histrionic antics—”

“I shan't go in for any histrionic antics, darling. I shall just be very still and dignified and rather pale and very lovely.”

“Well, if Alleyn isn't sick, he's got a stronger stomach than I have.”

Frid laughed musically. The constable answered a tap on the door.

“This is my entrance cue,” said Frid. “What do you bet?”

“It may be your father or Henry,” said Charlot.

“Inspector Alleyn,” said the constable, “would be glad if Miss Grey would speak to him.”

Roberta followed a second constable down the passage to the dining-room door. Her heart thudded disturbingly. She felt that she wanted to yawn. Her mouth was dry and she wondered if, when she spoke, her voice would be cracked. The constable opened the dining-room door, went in, and said: “Miss Grey, sir.”

Roberta, feeling her lack of inches, walked into the dining-room.

Alleyn and Fox had risen. The constable pulled out a chair at the end of the table. Through a thick mental haze, Roberta became aware of Alleyn's deep and pleasant voice. “I'm so sorry to worry you, Miss Grey. It's such bad luck that you should find yourself landed in such a disagreeable affair. Do sit down.”

“Thank you,” said Roberta in a small voice.

“You only arrived yesterday, didn't you?”

“Yes.”

“From New Zealand. That's a long journey. What part of New Zealand do you come from?”

“The South Island. South Canterbury.”

“Then you know the McKenzie Country?”

The scent of sun-baked tussock, of wind from the tops of snow mountains, and the memory of an intense blue, visited Roberta's transplanted heart. “Have you been there?” she asked.

“I was there four years ago.”

“In the McKenzie Country? Tekapo? Pukaki?”

“The sound of the names makes the places vivid again.” He spoke for a little while of his visit and like all colonials Roberta rose to the bait. Her nervousness faded and soon she found herself describing the New Zealand Deepacres, how it stood at the foot of Little Mount Silver, how English trees grew into the fringes of native bush, and how English bird-song, there, was pierced by the colder and deeper notes of bell-birds and mok-e-moks.